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Everybody knows the scene; we have been there a thousand times. The wizard’s laboratory is utterly familiar. On the shelves¸ row after row of glass jars filled with murky fluid house misshapen tenants not quite recognisable enough to identify but familiar enough to cause disturbing thoughts. Drawers contain odds and ends garnered over decades of work and not so much as an afternoon of tidying up. Boxes are stuffed with protruding knick-knacks¸ some byzantine¸ some arabesque¸ some wholly unidentifiable¸ some oddly mundane. Skulls of strange creatures lurk on the tops of bookshelves¸ gathering dust. Torn-open packets of herbs and incenses¸ partly used¸ are crammed together in cubbyholes. On the desktop¸ scales are used to weigh heaps of glittering dust; priceless jewels are turned into harlequin powders.